A Christmas Carol
by CretianStar
Summary: The Universe decides the Holmes brothers need an intervention, before they ruin everything. Fairly short duo of chapters, stealing parts from Scrooge. Merry Christmas!
1. Sherlock's Warning

A/N: Okay I toyed with several titles for this, and where to upload this duo of chapters and ultimately decided it was going to be a new story arc.

Based off A Christmas Carol and Scrooged the film, enjoy the first of two Christmas chapters.

Merry Christmas :)

* * *

"You have the chance Sherlock."

"Victor?" Sherlock stared at his old roommate in horror. "Victor, this isn't possible. Victor you're dead…" Sherlock's voice became hollow as he stared at the man before him.

"Yes I am indeed Sherlock. I am dead. Dead as I can be because I fucked up. I fucked up big time." Victor snorted and sat on Sherlock's sofa. He laid out a line of coke and quickly snorted it. "This is why I fucked up. I passed up on life Sherlock – there you and I were chasing down opiate dreams, not giving a fuck about anything. We were pretending to be these greater beings set on an earth with morons…"

"I am surrounded by morons, you never had the displeasure of meeting Anderson." Sherlock's mouth twisted in distaste.

"No Sherlock." Victor slammed his hand on the table and stood up once more. "We are not greater than anyone else on this earth, I should have embraced humanity not remained aloof from it." Victor hissed. "I died in some coke whore's house and it took three weeks in a fridge in a London morgue for my family to find me. No one could ID is that the way you want to end your life Sherlock?" Victor snarled and stood up once more.

"You're not real, you're a bad trip." Sherlock growled, glaring at the paraphernalia on his kitchen table.

"You shouldn't be tripping right now, what do _you_ need drugs for!" Victor grabbed Sherlock by the wrist when he reached for another needle. "You have everything you need right now Sherlock, I'm giving you this opportunity to fix your ways."

"What is this Scrooge? Well you can sod off Jacob Marley." Sherlock hissed, pulling himself away from a rather crazed Victor, unnerved by how solid the man before him felt. This really was a bad trip. Moving to the table, Sherlock focused hazily on the drugs before him and his hand shook as he sifted through the pills.

"I'm not gonna give you three ghosts to see the error of your ways Sherlock." Victor was stood opposite him again but his fingers were working a mobile phone, not that Sherlock noticed. He was still shakily moving through the assortment of white tablets. "I am your last chance Sherlock Holmes. Well not quite." Victor had moved back around the table so he was stood beside his best friend. The detective blurrily stared at the ghost before him and chuckled a laugh again.

"Such a bad trip, you look like you're in rough shape." He sneered.

"It has been nearly ten years Sherlock, what do you expect from a dead man?"

"Silence…" Sherlock grunted, returning to the task of drugs.

"You'll get that shortly but first I'm going to do my one kind gesture to humanity, I'm going to save your life." Victor grabbed Sherlock's collar, pulled him upright and to face him. "I'm going to get your angel to you whether it's the last thing I do."

"The fuck do you mean…" Sherlock started to say but without another word Victor punched him square in the face, knocking him clean out.

~S.H~

When he came to, there was no Victor, there was no 221b, there were no pills.

There were beeping noises, flashing lights and sterile white walls. The world was blurry and painful and the light hurt. He groaned aloud and something shifted to his left. He didn't have the energy to look at what moved but the room got darker and he moaned in relief.

The world went black again.

When he regained consciousness the next time, everything was in much sharper focus and the world was still dark but definitely clearer.

The blur next to him he could now identify as Molly Hooper. It didn't take him long, even in his addled state to read the emotions on her face – Molly had always been an open book. She was pissed, relieved, concerned and anxious all in one sitting. She couldn't work out whether to slap him or to hug him.

"Hooper." He said curtly and Molly twitched.

"Well you've ruined yourself but at least you're still here." Her tone was sharp and her fingers curled into her palms to stop herself from slapping him around the face.

"Why're you here?" He snapped out.

"Because you text me." She frowned. "But I imagine while you doped yourself up on almost every substance known to the drug dealers of London, you don't recall sending me a text."

It was Sherlock's turn to frown now, what did he remember?

His face fell and Molly's curiosity grew.

He remembered Victor. He remembered the warning. He remembered the encounter and now, now he remembered his best friend on _his_ mobile phone.

"Victor died Sherlock." Molly was perplexed at the mutterings Sherlock was now spouting.

"An angel…" Sherlock murmured but had got himself into such a frenzy that Molly had run for the nurses. The nurses wrestled him to the bed and fiddling with his IV.

He slipped back into a dark world and started to scream.

"I warned you Sherlock." Victor's voice came from nowhere. "You need to accept your guardian angel Sherlock. Or this is it. Eternal damnation. No burning, no freezing, no torture apart from that feeling…."

There it was, that burning in his belly, the itch under his skin, that need to snort up, dose up, that _need._

"Fuck." He cursed and felt the addiction intensify, it was behind his eyes, throbbing in his veins.

"I told you Sherlock. _I_ _told_ _you_ , now make it back to Molly, Sherlock. You have this **one** chance." Victor's voice had become urgent but Sherlock could barely focus on him. "Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me, Sherlock." Victor's voice was changing… to something he knew.

"Sherlock." Molly's voice was soft and coaxing. "Sherlock you're safe, you're with me." He could feel something other than the itch in his body, could see something in the darkness.

"Molly."

"Sherlock." Molly repeated and she threaded her fingers with him.

"Molly save me." He whined and her fingers tightened with his.

"I'm never gonna leave your side Sherlock, even when you I find you passed out on the kitchen floor with almost every drug known to man on your table." She scolded softly. "I'm going to be here through every damn tantrum, as I always have been." She whispered and Sherlock smiled gently.

"What did I do to deserve you Molly Hooper?" He grated out, voice crackly.

"That I never know." Another voice said wryly and Sherlock turned to see Victor perched on the windowsill. "Good going kid, knew you'd listen to me at least once in your life." He nodded before disappearing in a cloud of white dust.

Sherlock would process it when he was off the cocktail of drugs ricocheting in his system – right now all he needed was Doctor Molly Hooper sat beside him.

"Merry Christmas Sherlock." Victor's voice ghosted past him once more as Sherlock's thumb stroked the back of Molly's hand.


	2. Mycroft's Chance

A/N: I should completely stress this is not a Sherlock version of The Christmas Carol; it's me stealing tropes from Dickens' work and intertwining Sherlock into it!

Mycroft's brush with the universe.

* * *

"So what you're the ghost of Christmas future?" Mycroft finished his whiskey and stared at the dark haired man before him. "Do you not usually have a black robe and maybe a scythe?" Mycroft had that mocking tone he usually reserved for Sherlock but the dandy before him simply smiled and said nothing. "Do you have a name?" Mycroft swirled the amber contents in his glass.

"Not really, you can call me Sir or Ghost, whichever you prefer." The man quirked an eyebrow and waited patiently for Mycroft.

"Go on then **ghost** , amuse me." Mycroft set his glass down, stood and straightened his cuffs.

"Busy man?" The ghost said finally.

"Incredibly, countries do not run themselves." Mycroft said drily.

"Yet you can't run your life without your PA." The ghost smiled and Mycroft's expression froze. "Come along Mycroft Holmes." He opened the office door and gestured for the older man to leave, which he did after a moment's hesitation.

Stepping out into the corridor, the dandy closed the office off and walked towards another. It was usually a HR office but when he stepped inside it was not. It was a UN meeting.

It was in chaos and Mycroft quickly evaluated the situation; Russia was screaming at Ukraine, America was steadfastly sat at the other side of the room, ignoring everything around him, England (which was not him) was trying to break up an argument between Italy and France while Germany was screeching for calm. It was going to end in a fist fight and there wasn't a thing Mycroft could do to stop it.

At first it had panicked him but then he remembered the man lounging against the wall next to him.

"Is this your doing?"

"I'm a **ghost**. I have very little effect on the world." He raised an eyebrow and stared back at the elder Holmes. "I'm just showing _you_ what effect you have on the world when _you_ mess up." The dandy sighed. "Oh there goes Belgium! We have fisticuffs!" The dandy crowed with a smile.

"This isn't doing much for me you know." Mycroft said idly and the ghost sighed. He straightened his cuffs and swung back to the door behind him.

"Well then, we'll try the next spot." The dark haired man said simply and strode out of the room, down the hallway to halt outside another door. Mycroft vaguely recognised this as a fire exit door but there was no sign of the stairwell when the ghost opened it.

It was a hospital wing. There was Sherlock lying on a bed, ashen faced and fitting.

"What's going on, where's Sherlock, how soon can I get there?" Mycroft slapped his hands against the glass, the outburst of emotion seemingly at odds with the cold persona.

"All of this stems from one decision you've made Mycroft Holmes." The dandy quirks one immaculately groomed eyebrow and Mycroft turns to stare at the figure before him, the long dark hair that would be in a manbun in today's society was pulled back at the nape, bound in a ribbon. The man wore a long black dress coat that was cut to his figure immaculately, the white shirt had a cravat around the collar and there were stockings and breeches on the man's leg – he was a real 19c gent.

"What did I do?" Mycroft said hoarsely.

"You'll work it out by the end of this little adventure." The ghost said irritatingly and turned back to the window where Sherlock lay. Mycroft's heart leapt to his mouth as he watched nurses scramble around his brother's prone form, he watched anxiously as the medics fought to save him and Mycroft's head thunked against the window when the doctors stepped back and a time was scribbled on a paper.

"No Sherlock, no." Mycroft slammed his hands against the glass again but the ghost said nothing.

"Why can't I fix this, I can fix everything!" Mycroft hissed.

"Next stop." The ghost said lightly and stepped back to the oak panelled door, twisting the handle and stepping out into the plush corridor once more. No more was said, Mycroft wiped tears away and coughed as the composed himself.

"It wasn't real, it's just 'a' future. Not **the** future." Mycroft straightened his tie. "I can change that, I can make sure my little brother doesn't OD." Mycroft sniffed once and stood upright again. The dandy said nothing and strode down the corridor with Mycroft behind him. Another door, once a meeting room opened to see his parents sat down at tea.

"Well you act as though it's my fault Gerard." His mother sniped. "Like it's my fault that Mycroft hasn't made it again. Honestly that man has been utterly useless at organising anything."

"Well Betty why the devil isn't he here, you told me you rang him?" His father roughly snatched his napkin from the table and settled it across his lap.

"I've rang him several times to confirm and the daft man hasn't given me his address since Sherlock passed on."

"Passed on, bloody killed himself the stupid man." Gerard grunted and Betty froze, dropping the soup tureen on the kitchen floor with a smash. "What the hell did you do that for!" Gerard roared and Mycroft turned away from the ensuing row, shaken.

"Stop it." Mycroft said gruffly. "Tell me something." He coughed, heading back to the door. "Why didn't I get the first ghost or the second, why only the future?"

"The universe decided you needed a rather big kick to your backside." The dandy said lightly, pulling open the door watching with a strange smile as Mycroft all but hurled himself out of it. Pulling the door to with a snick, the shrill voices of his parents were finally drowned out and Mycroft sighed. "So it sent me. Did you want to see Sherlock's funeral?" His hand hovered over the door opposite but Mycroft shook his head furiously. "Yeah I'll be honest I'd avoid it if I was you – massive media circus, your parents had a huge argument in the middle of it and old Uncle Harold fell in the grave." The dandy shrugged.

"Stop it." Mycroft said hollowly.

"Well then, last stop I think… now you're getting the idea." The ghost nodded and walked down the hall to a final door. It was Mycroft's office door again.

But as per it wasn't the sanctuary of his office inside, it was a flat. It wasn't a flat that Mycroft recognised. It was dark and rank and Mycroft noted the mould on the walls and the trash on the floor.

"Where are we?"

"Go through to the bedroom, oh no hold on. Wait a moment." The dandy rested a hand on Mycroft's chest and a figure stumbled through the door, right past them. "Yeah go through now." He pushed open one of the only doors in the flat and Mycroft's eyes adjusted to the dark.

"You alright Kid?" A female voice, harsh and cold nudged the figure in the bed. It didn't take all of Mycroft's deductive genius to work out these two were whores, the blonde counting up the cash hurled a spliff at the prone figure on the rank bed. "That'll make you feel better, it gets easier from here." She grunted as she split the cash (70/30) Mycroft noted. "Remember you're only here because of your twat of a boss."

"Ex boss." Mycroft went cold. He knew that voice, _knew_ that voice intimately.

"Well he fired you for a reason."

"Thanks for taking me in Chels." Anthea pulled her long form up from the bed and grabbed the lighter from the side. "I didn't realise Mycroft would be such a tosser." She flicked back her brown hair and stared with dead eyes at the doorway Mycroft now hovered in.

"You worked it out?" The dandy said quietly. "Worked out why the universe needed to send me and only me?"

"I fired Anthea… But I fired her yesterday." Mycroft turned with wild eyes to the ghost who nodded.

"You wanna know the timeline?" Mycroft nodded frantically. "This Anthea will be pimped out for the first time in two weeks because you've effectively kicked her out of her accommodation as well, leaving her homeless. The UN meeting will happen in two months' time because you then spend too much time worrying about Anthea and denying your feelings. Consequently Sherlock dies eight months after you boot Anthea because you've turned your phone off. Your parents are by next Christmas…." The ghost drew a breath. "Now the real crux of the matter, why did you fire Anthea?" The dandy said accusingly.

"Because I love her."

"Ding. Ding. Ding." The ghost clapped. "She'll be whoring herself out in two weeks all because you fell in love with your PA."

"Can I fix it?"

"I don't know can you?" The ghost handed him a slip of paper and opened the flat door once more. There was his office as though he'd never left. "Run Mycroft."

~M.H~

"Anthea." Mycroft had ordered the first car he could and drove to the address the ghost had given him. He was now pounding on the door, it was cheap and if he wanted to, he could probably kick it open but he was furiously slamming his hand against the wood and eventually he heard it open.

"Fuck off!" The blonde opened it, ready to scream abuse at him.

"Move it Chelsea." Mycroft shoved her aside and ran through the flat to find Anthea sat on the sofa.

"How did you find me here?" She said woodenly.

"You'd never believe me." He said breathlessly and he knelt before the brunette. "Come back to me, please."

"Why, did you lose your post?" She said sarcastically, yanking her hands out of his grasp.

"No I lost the most important thing in my life… I lost you. It was my own stupid fault and I regret it." Mycroft gabbled and this tender moment was interrupted by a harsh voice.

"Are you sure this is the same man we were talking about?" Chelsea interrupted. She was staring at Mycroft who had now turned to glare at her. "Hey matey, watch it – I'm the one who was willing to pick up the pieces you shattered of my dear Anthea." Chelsea glared at him, hands on hips and Mycroft's face softened.

"Very true." He dipped his head and Chelsea still frowned. "I'll get you clean and off the game." He nodded again but turned back to Anthea. "Come home with me please."

"Mycroft…" Anthea was still reluctant, and now unnerved by the radical change in her boss; his expression was a myriad of emotions and it was unsettling to see.

"Anthea I love you and that's what scared me, come home with me." He said desperately and finally Anthea acknowledged the emotions playing out on the face of her usually ice cold employer. There was love and anxiety written all over him and she smiled at him.

"I'll come home with you." She squeaked as he kissed her hard and held him close when he deepened it.

"I also mean what I said about your friend. I'll get her off the game." He whispered to Anthea who locked eyes with her silent friend, but she nodded at Mycroft.

"Take me home Mycroft." She murmured, stroking his face and running her hand through his hair. "Take me home."


End file.
